


Relic Song

by okapi



Series: The Sniper Vanishes 'verse (Moran/Moriarty) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24087409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Early in their relationship, a job goes sour, and Sebastian is hurt.Hurt/comfort. Moran/Moriarty
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Series: The Sniper Vanishes 'verse (Moran/Moriarty) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718791
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33
Collections: Dick or Treat - Scrohto Region, Merry Month of Masturbation 2020, Story Works





	Relic Song

**Author's Note:**

> For the DW 2020 Dick or Treat; for DW Merry Month of Masturbation; and DW story works Hurt/Comfort challenge.

Opening the door, Seb sensed rather than saw, heard, or even smelled, the intruder. His fingers rested impotently on the light switch as the voice in the darkness said,

“Finally. I tried to offer you a ride home, but you gave me the slip. Naughty boy.”

The Irish lilt was like a tot of something in a cup of coffee.

Whiskey. Or, perhaps, poison.

Sebastian Moran was too bloody tired and in too much pain to care which.

But Seb did silently castigate himself for not realising it’d been the boss in that damned taxi. He’d been fleeing it, like a mouse from a cat, across half the bloody metropolis. And just like in the cartoons, there the cat was, right on his mousey doorstep, waiting for him when he arrived.

Seb had three doorsteps, or rather, bolt holes in London. There were plenty of other places, of course, he could spend the night, but there were three that were his alone, far from the maddening crowd.

This one he called Hospital.

Seb stepped inside and closed the door behind him, but he did not turn on a light. He stood very still and closed his eyes and waited for the execution.

“No.”

Seb didn’t believe him. He waited instead.

There was a huff and a shuffling and then a light.

“I'm not going to kill you, Moran.”

By the time the boss said his name, Seb already had the knife in his hand.

The boss’ hands were half-raised in mock surrender.

Seb’s own hand wasn’t half as steady as he wished it to be.

It’d been a really, really long night.

“The job went tits up.”

“I know. I also know the Andrews gang did a number on you.”

“A couple of numbers, but then they let me go.”

Which had made no sense, and still made no sense. Seb knew what it felt like to be a pawn in a game much bigger than himself. And he’d come to hate it. Pawns were, by their nature, sacrifice. If that was what was going on, he wanted out. But he knew the man before him wasn’t the kind to accept letters of resignation.

Seb really wished he would just get on with it and kill him. If Seb were dead, then he could lie down, which was what he wanted most in the world.

Seb tried to keep his eyes focused on the dark hair, dark eyes, Savile Row suit, anything, but it was tough to focus. His head hurt. His body hurt. A lot.

It had been a rough night, even by Seb’s standards.

So far, Seb’d done four jobs for this bastard who had broken into Seb’s rooms and was probably seconds away from killing Seb. The first two had been run-of-the-mill gigs. The third had gone spectacularly well, but tonight’s failure had been equally spectacular. Really, it might have been comic if Seb hadn’t suspected that in escaping the warehouse he’d only traded the frying pan of the Andrews gang for the fire of his employer.

“’Let you go’ meaning ‘got fucking distracted like the pathetic idiots they are, and you escaped.’ Listen, the sooner you put that knife down, the sooner you get your ice bath and your tea and a couple of little white pills and about a week’s rest in your surprisingly comfortable bed. Unless you’ve got a punctured lung, in which case I drop your arse at the nearest A & E and say a prayer.” He drew a cross in the air.

“Did you set me up?”

The jaw hardened. Obsidian-dark eyes flickered.

“Was it a fucking test?!”

The hands—well-manicured hands, Seb wondered fleetingly if he did it himself or went to place—dropped very slowly.

What were the hands going for? A gun, a knife, a bomb?

Seb never found out.

His body went hot and cold, and his legs gave way. The last sound he heard was the knife—the knife the boss had given him a fortnight ago while they shagged at a bathhouse—clattering to the floor.

* * *

Hands that were not Seb’s own were touching him. Everywhere. Like curious, thick-legged spiders.

Seb hissed. Small and large detonations of pain were being set off wherever the fingers pressed. Bright lights flashed in his eyes. He tried to summon up the strength to fight.

“Shut up.” More touching. “You’ll live.”

For how long, though? Like a half-dead mouse on a doorstep. Sacrifice. Offering. What was the difference? Seb licked his lips and forced air up through his lungs and past his vocal cords.

“How?” was all he managed.

The reply came quick and flat.

“Girl Guides.”

* * *

“ARGH!”

The shock of the ice brought Seb back to life.

There was a soft chuckle. “Christ, you are a masochist, aren’t you?”

It hurt to open his eyes, but Seb did it anyway. He turned his head, too.

“What do you care? You’re a fucking sadist, aren’t you?” he grumbled through clenched, chattering teeth.

One eyebrow rose. One corner of a mouth turned down in a mirthless half-smile. “Not telling, love. Must keep some mystery. After all, it’s only our second date,” he crooned. Then he looked at his watch. “Two minutes. I’m not losing you to something as common as hypothermia.” He left the bathroom, and Seb closed his eyes.

He’s going to drop a fan in the bath, thought Seb. But there isn’t a fan. Not in Hospital.

Seb groaned in resignation, and let the ice do its work.

Hospital was the only bolt hole with a proper bath, that is, a bath with enough space for stitching up and icing down and sundry other ministrations that were sometimes required.

And it was quiet. Much quieter than a room in a genuine hospital, but, somehow, it’d acquired a genuinely tiresome nurse because no sooner was Seb enjoying himself than he was interrupted.

“Out.”

* * *

The first sip of hot, sweet tea went down like heaven, and Seb sighed as much. He watched the boss pour a finger of whiskey in a heavy glass tumbler, then settle himself in a chair beside the bed.

A glass of water and two tiny white pills waited on the bedside table.

“Easterbrook was an even weaker link than I anticipated. He is no longer.”

It sounded like an apology.

“No longer a weak link?” prompted Seb.

“No longer anything.”

Seb studied the face intently. The face appeared to be studying the glass of whiskey just as intently.

“Neither is the Andrews gang, I bet.” Seb watched the arm of the elbow bend and rest on the back of the chair.

Well-manicured hands carefully and unnecessarily smoothed slick black hair. “It’s too bad DI Lestrade isn’t the fruit-basket-sending sort. He was just saved a lot of legwork, paperwork.” He sniffed. “Work. I’m just a labour-saving device, aren’t I?” he mused.

Then he fell silent.

Seb waited.

Seb was good at waiting. And he never, ever minded silence. The world was too damned noisy by half.

The voice that spoke was so quiet that if Seb’s head hadn’t stopped throbbing for a breath or two, he might not have heard it.

“It wasn’t a test, but you passed.”

The head didn’t turn but the hand holding the whiskey was extended toward Seb.

Seb tapped the edge of his teacup to the rim of the glass.

“Cheers,” he said and took a sip.

Then dark eyes met his, and Seb almost spilled the whole scalding slop down the front of him. He heard it, just as if the words had been spoken aloud.

_You could’ve given me up._

Seb returned his cup to its saucer. He gave a half-smile and shook his head.

_No, I couldn’t._

Seb had learned, for better or for worse, that he was the kind of poor sod who needed something to believe in. No matter that everything he’d believed in had betrayed him in rather extraordinary fashion. In the end, he’d been left with only his gun to believe in, which was all right as far as it went, but, Christ, this man, this gorgeous, unpredictable, brilliant, murderous creature! He was a loaded weapon walking around in Savile Row.

And Seb, poor, poor Seb, had, for reasons he didn’t want to examine tonight, decided to believe in him!

Seb had no illusions about the violence. Or his own life expectancy. Or the fact that everything he believed in eventually sold him out and so would James Moriarty, sooner or later.

Seize the day, then. Or the night. Or morning. Or whatever time it was. Seb had lost track.

“Stay?” he asked.

Dark eyes widened a fraction, just a fraction, but it was enough to tell Seb he’d taken the boss by surprise.

“Yeah, you’ll need to be monitored.” He coughed and made a motion at his own head. “Concussion, etcetera.”

“Etcetera,” repeated Seb, letting a wicked grin curl his lips. “Does etcetera include my honking big cock?”

“Good to know _that_ head,” he nodded to Seb’s crotch, “hasn’t got a traumatic injury.” He got to his feet, and that’s when Seb realised that his employer had not yet seen fit to remove his waistcoat.

Christ.

“Let me do a check.”

“Be my guest.” Seb finished his tea while the premises, such as they were, a single room and bathroom, were pronounced secured.

When the boss returned, his hands were working the silver buttons of his waistcoat.

Seb gave a long wolf whistle and growled, “Daddy’s home.”

Their eyes met. They laughed.

His face, his hair, his whole being softened as he divested himself of the waistcoat. He removed his shirt, too, and draped on the back of the chair over the waistcoat. Then went the shoes, socks, and trousers.

In just a vest and pants, he looked incredibly small and incredibly vulnerable, so vulnerable that Seb reached under the bed for the weapon he kept strapped to the bedframe. He put the empty cup and saucer on the floor and set the gun on the bedside table beside the water and the pills.

“Just in case,” said Seb.

“Just in case I change my mind and decide to murder you after all?”

“Yeah, I think you’ll wait ‘til you’ve frigged me, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. Sadist, remember? Draw it out. Make me suffer.”

He leaned down until their faces were very close. “Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Keep you on edge for a while.”

Remembering the Andrews gang, Seb recoiled involuntarily, and there came a puff of breath and quick reassurance.

“Nah. Not tonight. No games tonight, Moran.”

“You know, I mentioned it before at the bathhouse, but you can call me ‘Seb,’ especially when you’ve got your hand round my cock.”

He nodded and licked his lips. “You want to call me ‘Jim’?”

_Jim._

Seb thought of the dark-eyed boy he met a long time ago. The one he’d rescued. The one who may have just rescued him back, only taking a few decades to return the favour.

Seb began to tremble, and he cursed himself for it.

“Whenever or never. I don’t really care what you call me.”

Seb felt like he was falling down a deep well.

“Just put your hand on my cock. I’m too tired. Too muddled. Put me out of my misery. Please, for fuck’s sake.” Seb could hardly believe the filament of neediness in his tone, but he meant ever word.

He was desperate.

The dark head turned towards the beside table and the pills. “Yeah. Nightcap. Rest.”

Seb let out a long, low groan when the slick hand finally encircled his cock.

“Girl Guides, too?” he teased.

There was a soft chuckle. “Shut up.”

Seb let his head loll to one side and felt his body sink deeper into the mattress. He closed his eyes and gave himself over ministering hand. The pain subsided as his pleasure built, hotter and harder, in his groin. Suddenly, he began to pant open-mouthed, making a wheezy, pleading little song of it.

“Make me come baby, need to come, I’m come for you, just you, make me come…”

Finally, he did.

“You do make a gal work for it, don’t you? Here.”

When Seb was cleaned up, the two pills were being foisted on him. The glass of water hovered just beyond.

Seb shook his head. “I want to…” He made a vague gesture in the direction of trousers hanging on the back of a chair and not the man who’d once been in them.

There was a scornful snort. “I’m not a necrophiliac.”

Christ.

So, he was going to be murdered after all? Well, he might as well take the damned pills.

He swallowed them down with a long sip of water.

“You’ll wank to me when I’m asleep, yeah?”

The barrel of Seb’s gun danced in front of his eyes. “Shut up and go to sleep or I’ll shoot you.”

“Yes, boss.”

* * *

Fucking Easterbrook. Fucking Easterbrook had almost gotten Seb killed tonight.

No, not predicting the effect fucking Easterbrook’s treachery would have on the Andrews gang was Jim’s own fault.

And it had almost gotten Seb killed.

It wouldn’t happen again, but that it happened at all was intolerable.

Jim felt Seb’s forehead, took Seb’s pulse, studied the rise and fall of Seb’s chest, and rolled Seb gently onto his other side.

_“You’ll wank to me when I’m asleep, yeah?”_

Maybe Jim would if he could forget about the colossal fuck-up that was tonight for a while.

Seb was nothing if not wank fodder.

Muscled. Tattooed. Broad chest, strong arms, thick legs, and a cock that Jim was so mad for he’d staked out a bathhouse just to ogle.

But he’d done more than ogle.

He went to his jacket and removed a mobile from a pocket. He set the mobile on the bedside table, propped up on the glass of water. Then he knelt on the bed beside a sleeping Seb, who was curled on his side, facing the wall.

“Bloody hell, Seb,” whispered Jim as he rubbed the front of his pants. He instantly conjured the scene of Seb springing out of his drug-and-fatigue stupor and grabbing him, pushing him into the bed, and climbing atop him.

Jim pinched his lips together to keep from moaning too loud. He dispensed with vest and pants and returned to his position with a bottle of lubricant in hand.

Soon, he was drawing his curled hand up and down his cock and wriggling two fingers sunk deep in his arse as he devoured the sight of Seb, sleeping if not peacefully, then at least safely.

Seb didn’t trust Jim, not entirely, but Jim trusted Seb, and after tonight, Jim knew he always would. Even if it cost him everything.

What was everything, after all?

“Fuck me, baby, fuck me,” he grunted quietly. “Give it to me, all of it.”

Jim fucked his own arse, his own cock, and wished it were Seb’s fingers, Seb’s hand, Seb’s mouth, Seb’s cock…oh, God…his eyes roamed…Seb’s gun!

What would Seb think if he woke up to find his boss—Jim wondered briefly if Seb realised just how smitten, how utterly gone, how much the boss of Jim he could actually be if he so desired—sodding himself with his gun! Would it turn him on? Dare Jim hope?

Jim whimpered. He was so bloody pathetic. He fantasised about taking Seb away, far away. A holiday. Just two of them. An island paradise. Or a snowy chateau. Fucking. Lots and lots of fucking.

Forget holidays.

Jim shifted to imagining turning Seb towards him right then, caressing him to hardness and impaling himself on Seb’s cock.

Jim tried, and failed, to quell the shuddering as he spent onto the bed. He also tried, and failed, to quash the impulse to lean over and press his lips to Seb’s cheek and say softly,

“Good night, tiger.”

Jim reached for the mobile and stopped the video recording. Then he dropped the mobile in the middle of the drying mess on the bed and padded to the bathroom.

In five minutes, he was dressed. Silently, he locked the door behind him as he left.


End file.
